


something, somewhere

by ceteiq



Series: "and a place to rest my head" [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Homelessness, Mpreg, Other, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Taverns, Underage Kissing, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23875846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceteiq/pseuds/ceteiq
Summary: A ficlet based on my fic "and a place to rest my head," for the prompt:Something before Rian was born, while Jaskier was on the streets(In which a very pregnant Jaskier arrives at Szymon's inn looking for a place to stay.)
Series: "and a place to rest my head" [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719994
Comments: 28
Kudos: 189





	something, somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> i asked for prompts on tumblr related to my fic "[ **and a place to rest my head**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097559/chapters/55259602)" and this is for the prompt: "Something before Rian was born, while Jaskier was on the streets." thank you to the anon who requested it! this one's a bit of a doozy
> 
> background notes: i imagine that over the course of his pregnancy, jaskier traveled by foot progressively further and further away from his hometown, trying (unsuccessfully) to find some town/village/city where the people would be kinder to him. but then when winter arrived and he knew the baby was going to come soon, it became absolutely essential that he find somewhere to stay, and that's where we pick up with this story. and obviously "the innkeeper" in this story is szymon; jaskier just doesn't know his name yet.
> 
>  **WARNINGS!** omegaverse, mpreg, vague suicidal thoughts, hunger, poverty, homelessness, and sexual content, namely: underage sexual assault, coerced underage nudity, coerced underage kissing

Jaskier doesn't know how far away the next town is, but he knows that if he gets there and doesn't find somewhere to stay, he's going to die.

Not right away, of course.

But he's going to find an alley and curl up there and wait, for as long as it takes, until death finds him— until he starves or freezes or expires of general fucking misery.

Because he's tired. He's cold and hungry and tired— nay, exhausted— and he's been walking for _days_ , from town to town, inn to inn, _begging_ for someone to take him in.

He's offered songs, he's offered sex, but no one has wanted him. And why would they? His own parents didn't want him; why would a stranger? Especially now that he's skinny and dirty and smelly and nine fucking months pregnant.

But he'll give the universe— destiny, or the gods, or whatever the fuck is out there— one last chance. He'll keep going until he reaches the next town. He'll try his luck at one more inn.

So he keeps walking. And walking, and walking, for another three hours. By the time he sees the lights of the town in the distance, it's night, and it's snowing— the first snow of the season; just his fucking luck.

By the time he finds an inn with a lamp lit in front, it's snowing _hard_. Jaskier trudges toward it, shivering, and with cold, trembling hands, he pulls open the door.

The place is a dump— dank and dirty and nearly empty, save for a few people sitting in the corners with their faces buried in their arms, and a fat male beta who's wiping down tables.

The beta looks up when Jaskier enters. "What the fuck do you want?" he demands.

"Are— are you the innkeeper?" asks Jaskier, trying to keep his teeth from chattering too violently.

"Yes," says the man. "What's it to you?"

"Sir," Jaskier says. "Please, I... I need somewhere to stay."

The innkeeper squints at him, and Jaskier knows what he sees: the defeat in Jaskier's eyes, the dirt on his skin, the holes in the knees of his breeches and the toes of his boots— and of course, the giant pregnant belly, bare and tumid, hanging out from under his shirt.

"What the fuck do you think this is, a fucking charity?" the man asks at last.

"No," says Jaskier, before the man can turn away. "No, please, I can play the lute, I can sing, I can write songs. I'm very good, I swear; I— I can perform for your customers, make them happy. Please."

The innkeeper barks out a laugh. "I'll tell you what you can do with your _lute_ ," he says. "You can take it and go fuck yourself. I don't need a pregnant omega stinking this place up. Now get the _fuck_ out of here."

"Wait. No, wait, wait," cries Jaskier frantically, as the innkeeper shoves him toward the door. He stumbles backward, regains his footing, and grabs the innkeeper's sleeve. "I can do other things; I— I can suck your cock. I'm good at that too."

The man lifts an eyebrow, obviously intrigued. "Oh, is that so?" he says, and Jaskier slumps a little with relief.

He nods hurriedly. "If you let me stay," he whispers. "Me and the baby. Then yes."

"Hmm. Come along then," says the innkeeper, with a jerk of his head. "Let's see what you can do."

He sets off at a brisk pace and Jaskier follows along behind him, trying to keep up, until they finally reach the kitchen. The smell of food is so strong that it makes Jaskier dizzy— he hasn't eaten in five days, not since he set out to find somewhere to give birth.

"Kneel," the innkeeper tells him.

Jaskier sets down his lute and kneels.

Then the man unlaces his breeches and pulls out his cock, which is just as fat and ugly as the rest of him. "Let's see what you can do, eh?" he says, with a sneer.

And Jaskier leans in as close as his belly will let him, takes the stubby cock in his mouth, and blows it like his life depends on it.

Because, well. It sort of does.

***

"Fuck," moans the innkeeper. "Oh, _fuck_. Oh, Melitele, you're good; oh mother _fucker_ —"

***

When he finally cums down Jaskier's throat, Jaskier swallows every drop, then licks his lips as seductively as he can manage.

"You taste so good," he says softly. He's learned, during the past nine months, that praise usually goes over well with men like this. "Really good, sir."

The innkeeper ruffles Jaskier's dirty hair, grinning broadly. "Gods damn," he says. "Fuck. Best motherfucking blowjob of my life, that was. Where the fuck did you learn that?"

 _On the streets, from men who'd choke me if I didn't do it right_ , thinks Jaskier bitterly.

He shrugs.

The man laughs. "How old are you, anyway? Twelve?"

"I'm fourteen."

"And when's the baby due?"

"Um." Jaskier shrugs again. "Any day now, I think."

"Who's the other father? He gonna come snooping around here looking for his kid?"

"N-no," stammers Jaskier. "No, he was just, um. He wasn't— he's not— he just—" Jaskier breaks off, and the innkeeper snorts.

"Too much of a slut to even know who it was, huh?"

Jaskier nods hastily, because that's easier than telling the truth.

The innkeeper smirks at him for a moment, then snaps his fingers. "Stand up," he says.

Jaskier does so.

"Take off your pants."

"Sir?"

"You want to stay here or not?" asks the man.

"I do. Please."

"Then take off your fucking pants."

So Jaskier pulls down his breeches, which he's already been wearing unbuttoned for the past couple months to accommodate his swollen belly. He folds his hands in front of his crotch, but the innkeeper pushes them aside. He flicks at his dick, fondles it, then orders Jaskier to turn around.

Jaskier turns, and stands there motionless as the innkeeper spreads his ass cheeks unceremoniously apart.

"Hmm," he says. He leans in, sniffs Jaskier's neck, and lets out a satisfied sigh. "Alright then," he pronounces at last. "You can stay."

Jaskier wheels around, his pants still around his ankles. "Really?" he asks. "And the baby too?"

"Sure," shrugs the innkeeper. "I mean, I'll be putting you to work, of course."

"I can work," says Jaskier quickly, desperately.

The innkeeper laughs. "Yes, I'm sure you can." He reaches around to pinch Jaskier's ass, and laughs again when Jaskier flinches.

"Pull up your pants," he says. "I'll get you something to eat; you're a fucking skeleton."

"Thank you," breathes Jaskier, tripping forward in his haste to pull up his breeches. "Thank you so much, sir, thank you, thank you—"

"Shut up," says the innkeeper.

Jaskier shuts up, and waits, fidgeting, as the innkeeper prepares him a meal of leftovers.

"Come on," snaps the man at last, nodding toward the common room.

Jaskier grabs his lute and hurries along after him, one hand on his belly, saliva pooling in his mouth.

The innkeeper sets the plate down on one of the rickety tables and motions for Jaskier to sit, which he does.

For a moment, he just stares down at the food: a chicken drumstick, a stale crust of bread, and some mushy, over-boiled potatoes.

Then he starts to eat, too hungry to care about manners or appearances or anything except getting food into his stomach as quickly as possible.

He bites off huge chunks of meat and hardly chews them before swallowing. He crams potatoes into his mouth with his bare fingers. He scarfs down pieces of bread so stale it scrapes his gums and throat, but he doesn't mind.

"Greedy little fucker, aren't you?" the innkeeper says as he stands there watching. "Next time you suck my cock, you'd better be as excited for it as you are for that fucking chicken."

"I will be," says Jaskier, through a mouthful of food. "I promise."

The innkeeper chuckles.

Jaskier keeps eating. He eats until he's full, and then he eats some more. Somehow, he manages not to puke.

When his plate is empty, the innkeeper calls Jaskier a pig and a whore, then grabs an oil lamp and leads him upstairs and into a small, dark, drafty room.

There's no fireplace, but by the light of the innkeeper's oil lamp, Jaskier can make out a wooden chair and a bed. And fuck, Jaskier hasn't slept in a bed since he left home. He takes an eager step forward.

"Ah, ah, ah," chides the innkeeper.

Jaskier turns to face him.

"Come here," the man says. "Come here and kiss me goodnight."

"Kiss?"

"Yes. Come on."

So Jaskier leans in— what other choice does he have?— and they kiss, with Jaskier's enormous belly sandwiched between them.

The innkeeper's tongue tastes vile, and his breath smells even worse, but Jaskier just shuts his eyes and endures it until at last the innkeeper pulls away.

"There," he says. "That's a good omega. What's your name, anyway?"

"Jaskier."

The innkeeper scoffs. "What a fucking stupid name. No, I'll call you... Dandelion."

Jaskier nods dutifully. It might be for the best, anyway, he figures, to save his chosen stage name for the future, to keep it pristine and untarnished by assholes like this innkeeper.

"Goodnight, Dandelion," says the man, in a voice so simpering it comes out sounding cruel. "I'll see you tomorrow, hmm?"

"Yes," Jaskier tells him. "Goodnight. And thank you. Again."

"Oh, you'll make it up to me," the innkeeper chuckles. "Mark my words."

And with that, he shuts the door to the room, leaving Jaskier alone in the dark.

Immediately, Jaskier kicks off his boots and sets his lute down on the floor, then staggers over to the bed and collapses onto the mattress, burying his face in the pillow. It smells strange. Musty. But he barely notices.

It feels so fucking _good_ , to lie in a bed again, even one with a lumpy mattress and a musty-smelling pillow and thin, ratty sheets.

He lies there for a while in silence, on his side, just breathing. Then he presses his hands to his belly and whispers into the darkness: "Hey honey. Hi sweetheart. I— I found us a place to stay; isn't that great? I mean, it's not, um. Ideal. But it's out of the snow. So at least we're not gonna freeze to death, right? And I got to eat some food. And there's a bed. You've never felt a bed before, have you, honey? Can you tell the difference?" He waits to see if the baby will move or something, but they don't. Jaskier sighs. "Anyway, the innkeeper isn't very nice, and I think he's gonna fuck me pretty often, and he'll probably make me work in the kitchen or something. But it's okay. It's okay, honey. It's worth it, to have somewhere off the streets where I can give birth to you, okay?"

Just then the baby kicks him, and Jaskier laughs.

"Ah, there you are," he says. "You've been quiet tonight, haven't you?" He rubs his hand gently over the swell of the baby bump, and blinks back tears. "Oh, honey, I love you," he tells them. "I love you _so_ much. I can't wait to meet you."

And he closes his eyes, his hands still on his stomach, and drifts off to sleep, smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> :( thanks for reading! let me know your thoughts in a comment!
> 
> and if you have any prompt requests, [feel free to send them to me](https://ceteiq.tumblr.com/post/616491407371354112/hey-everyone-i-feel-like-spicing-up-my-life)!
> 
> also, subscribe to this [**series**](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719994) so you don't miss more ficlets when i post them! :)


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